The Path Illumed: Epilouge
by Sabrina Clarke
Summary: Draco writes a letter to Hermione from Azkaban. Very angsty. Who do you think read it? REVIEW and TELL ME!


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A/N: If you like Rock with some Hip-Hop and Techno then before reading this I would definitely suggest you download "With You" (spelled "WTHYOU" on the CD- _Reanimation_) by Linkin Park. When I wrote this, that's the song I was listening to, and it really fits in great.

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Disclaimer: It's not mine- it's hers. ::points at J.K Rowling:: Let her keep it.

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The Clock Chimed Twelve

[Epilogue- 5 years later]

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By Sabrina Clarke & Edited by Fiona Chan

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I woke up in a dream today (to the cold of the static)

and put my cold feet on the floor 

Forgot all about yesterday 

Remembering I'm pretending to be where I'm not anymore 

A little taste of hypocrisy… 

It's true/ the way I feel 

Was promised by your face 

The sound of your voice/ Painted on my memories 

Even if you're not with me/ I'm with you 

You/ Now I see/ keeping everything inside 

You/ Now I see/ Even when I close my eyes 

…Fine line between this and that 

When things go wrong I pretend the past isn't real 

Now I'm trapped in this memory

And I'm left in the wake of the mistake… 

Even though you're so close to me 

You're still so distant/ And I can't bring you back 

(No) I wont let you control my fate while I'm holding the weight of the world on my conscience  
(No) I'm never without you, I'll always be with you- you'll never forget me, I'm keeping you with me  
(No) I wont let you take me to the end of my row or keep burning and torching my soul…  
And no, no, no, I wont let you go.  
**WTHYOU - Linkin Park **(_With You _**Reanimation **Remix)

A unified cry of defiance slowly became a moan of despair as each voice faded to a racking sob- to the realization that all hope was lost. The mark, which had long stood as a symbol of hope for those that lay imprisoned here, had disappeared. So they lay on the cold floor, strewn with hay and human waste, and prepared themselves for death. All of them waited for the Dementors to come and to suck out what little life they had left, and leave an empty shell of human clay. It was a painless end, but that brought them no solace- many were beyond pain. It was the meaningless existence that begot an almost inevitable doom. Another Voldemort would not come and they were as good as dead. _Allow yourself to die, as there is no hope for you_. All of them lay motionless and emaciated- waiting while their thoughts of complete abandonment and hopelessness fed the torment-hungry Dementors. 

Hopelessness. It lurked under black cloaks, it rested in rotting hands, and it floated around them in the pestilent atmosphere. It huddled in corners, and threw itself against the bars. It was in desperate hands that had scratched bloodied trails into the hard stone of their cells. The prisoners lay on the floor of the cell, lost in dark dreams, as they stood over the prisoners, feeding on their souls. They waited for pale lips to draw a rattling breath and to blow out the candles of their existence. It lived like a parasite inside of them.

There was one; however, who did not die in soul that way. He was long gone. Lost. Lost in the wandering tunnels of his past- his misery. Behind his indifferent exterior- his impassive mask, was a passion that burned with unimaginable fervor. _Appearances can be deceiving_. To stay alive, he merely replayed memories in his head, gorging his eyes on every wisp of dream until it flew away into the depths of his soul. A final desperate attempt at trying to preserve every detail of her smile, her face, her whole identity until the time he would see her again. He moved his thin hands from his bloody ears and allowed the screaming to enter his mind unhindered. He was screaming too. It wouldn't let him sleep. His shaking hands picked up a battered luxury eagle feather quill and he began to write- 

Dear Hermione,

They told me I had final request. So I'm writing a letter, and I'm writing it to you. I had to say good bye, to tell-. Your love was the only reason I wasted my time standing against the diablerie that threatened to corrupt my soul. My soul. I laugh as I write this. I was a preconceived image of unfeeling, passionless, and blind clay- a soul was conveniently forgotten. A molded Malfoy- an image, a form I had to fill, and if I didn't. You changed me. How you saved me. Was I worth saving? Was I? Tell me I was- but I'm dreaming if I really think I'll ever hear you say that. It's a sad day when I man doesn't even have his delusions to fall back on, though.

You know why I'm here. Or at least you've heard the stories and listened to the rumors. I didn't kill Snape in cold blood. It was an accident. I didn't tell them that, but I can't die with people whispering, "Like father, like son." Don't let them, Hermione. Tell them it was an accident. I think I belong here in Azkaban in my accursed stone coffin, left to percolate in the worst experiences of my life. I worked hard to get here. But see my writing is steady and my mind, sane. Because of you and the memories of you I would never let them take away. But then again, sanity and love have a silky, lubricating quality, like water, the more you try to contain it- cage it in the flesh walls of your hands the faster the droplets escape. It _is _a sad day, Azkaban has made me quite the philosopher. We were young, I was foolish for ever imagining, I would be yours and you mine forever. Forever. Such a long time, but I was willing to promise you everything. 

The worst part about this place is that I've nothing to do but think, leaving me in the wake of all my mistakes. Leaving me in regret. Our correspondence was a scanty one. Every letter was cheerful- your married life, your married love. Your married. I wish I was there at your wedding. You know what I did with the invitation? I burned it. The ashes probably still lie in my fireplace grate. I burned every letter, but I would find myself scratching through the burning ashes of the fire, rescuing every charred piece. The sadness- regret, comes when it's least expected. It shoots out of the dark and slaps me in the face. But the hurt it brings is irreparable.

You know, I thought things were going all right. Then you came and you destroyed everything- shattered my pride, destroyed my beliefs. I think that's why I fell in love with you. I know we're through- we've _been _through, but the thoughts of you continue to plague me in my head. In my heart.

Blame it on the Dementors. I'm dying, Hermione. I never really had a fear of death. Back then- no one would miss me. But now I try to keep my eyes open and to stay alive in this hellhole, relishing each moment of pain. Because, maybe, just maybe someone will miss me. You. _You should have let me die_! Then, I would have died without regret, without remorse probably by the hand of one of your do-gooder friends performing a service to society. Now I'm guilty. Should I die? Should I? I always did seem to say things you could never respond to.

Whether I should or not, in a few moments, I will become part of the chilling silence that spreads like disease through this place. They are coming for me now, and I can hear their feet on the cold, stone floor, and the rustle of their gray robes. I can feel their coldness invading every corner of me. Coldness where you should have been. Stop my thoughts- they're strangling me, more than this noxious milieu. Bet you didn't know that you did this to me. I'm telling you because, I don't want to be just a memory. To be just 'Malfoy' to you. 

I should have changed for you. I regarded this whole Death Eater charade as some irrevocable casting of my lot. I should have offered you everything I could. Only now I can. I can offer you the wasted remains of my fortune. Or I can offer you the tattered robes on my back. Now it's too late. And all I can ask is that you remember me. At least I didn't die like my father- with the first and last smile I would ever have, frozen on my lips. I smiled with you. Because I've changed. I don't want to be just a memory to you. 

Good _Bye,_

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Draco **M**alfoy

Somewhere a clock chimed twelve. Two eyes stared dumbfounded at the hastily written piece of paper. The bright-green ink glowed eerily in the fading firelight. _He changed_. Too late. Two hands crumpled up the creased sheet of parchment and threw it into a dustbin, where it missed and landed on the floor. A noise was heard in the corner of the spacious study. The form leaned back in the winged-high backed chair while two arms enveloped the figure.

"Any post, darling?"

"No, none at all."

"…_For naught so vile on the earth doth live_

But to the earth some special good doth give;

Nor aught so good but, strained from that fair use,

Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse.

Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied,

And vice sometime by action dignified."

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Romeo and Juliet - Shakespeare


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